Soon shall the winter's foil be here;
Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt—A little while,
And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and 
        growth—a thousand forms shall rise
From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.

Thine eyes, ears—all thy best attributes—all that takes cognizance 
        of natural beauty,
Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the 
        delicate miracles of earth,
Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,
The arbutus under foot, the willow's yellow-green, the blossoming
        plum and cherry;
With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs—the 
        flitting bluebird;
For such the scenes the annual play brings on.